


If you try sometimes, you just might find that you get what you need

by WeMadeMonsters



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4883161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeMadeMonsters/pseuds/WeMadeMonsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon isn't sure if it's Illya who doesn't want him, or the Red Peril, or both. Or neither. Or some combination he doesn't care to imagine at the moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this on my phone thanks to some computer problems, so I'm not really focused on editing. Just trying to get my mind off things with a little writing, this probably isn't going anywhere.
> 
> Tw: rough sex/sexual contact and emotional detachment
> 
> For Minghi <3

Napoleon isn't sure if it's Illya who doesn't want him, or the Red Peril, or both. Or neither. Or some combination he doesn't care to imagine at the moment. 

Whatever the situation is, the man he's been working with behind the iron curtain for the last month or so has rebuffed every advance with a stunning range of emotion that seemed to vary from slight annoyance to outright aggravation. His hands had been swatted away, he'd been stared down with a gaze colder than the Russian winter; and the closest they'd come to physical intimacy was when Illya (or was it the Peril?) has flipped, pinned, and pulled back his arm almost to the breaking point last night when he'd tried to straddle him in the abandoned home they'd been sharing as a base. Napoleon didn't worry about his ego, he'd comforted himself with the thought that he could break the hold if he wanted to even as Illya's knee dug into the small of his back. 

"Now is not the time for that."

"Oh? Then when is?"

Instead of an answer, Illya had released him all at once, stalking to the other end of the room as silently and moodily as an angry cat, leaving Napoleon to sit and try to rub the feeling back into his wrist. 

What had it been then, when they'd kissed the month before? He'd been standing too close to Illya again, not bothering to his his attraction and the Red Peril had grabbed him and kissed him hard, until both their lips and his own jaw was bruised from the way Illya had gripped it to hold him still. Illya's face had been as unreadable as it had been when they first met; something between anger and cold calculation in his eyes even as he'd smiled and spoken in Russian.

"Is that what you've been after, cowboy?"

It was, but there had been nothing since then and Illya's moodiness had increased worth each week they spent trying to work through the tangled spy networks of communist Berlin. It was Napoleon's opinion that he needed release; some kind of distraction, something to spend his nights on other than glaring out into the street as though it had offended him personally. But no matter what he tried, what he said, it seemed that Ilya had no intention of repeating the kiss in the hotel room that had left him dazed and hungry for more. 

"Time would go faster if you did something other than just sit there," he hadn't bothered to stand yet, but Napoleon took the time to fix the cuffs of his shirt as he spoke. "Really, at this point I'd even settle for a conversation. About you."

From across the room where Illya had taken his seat on one of the old chairs that had been left behind so he could continue his watch out the window came a derisive noise, rough like sandpaper on glass. Rough like the gun calluses on Illya's hands. He didn't take his eyes off the street or even turn his head, but Napoleon could hear the thoroughly unamused smile in his voice.

"What do you want, Cowboy? That we should sit around and pull at each other's cocks on U.N.C.L.E's money?"

Napoleon knew he shouldn't laugh. Much like one of the cats Illya seemed to share most of his personality with, he knew that the Red Peril hated to be laughed at. "Is that how they do it in the KGB?" The amusement in his voice was as dangerous as the laughter but he couldn't help it. Illya was as stuffy about sex as one of his suits. "Really, I think we can do a little better than that."

Illya's back was stiffer than usual now, his shoulders squared and Napoleon couldn't help but wonder if that was embarrassment or his partner squaring for a fight. 

"This is why it is best to not be sending two agents when one will do."

"Because then you can pull at your own cock in peace?" Napoleon offered helpfully.

"Less distraction. Especially when one agent is so willfully stupid." 

It was Napoleon's turn to make a derisive noise. After all they'd been through in Rome, and Istanbul on top of it, he was well aware that Illya didn't find him stupid. Well, didn't exactly find him stupid might be the more accurate statement. It was just the kind of statement the Russian resorted to uttering when his feathers had been ruffled. At least his temper seemed more in check now, trying to keep a man with the size and short fuse of a grizzly bear from strangling you at every offhand comment wasn't exactly Napoleon's idea of a good time. Not when they both stayed fully clothed, anyway. 

"Did you think I was willfully stupid when you kissed me in Istanbul?" Perhaps he was poking said bear needlessly now, but if he had to spend another night in this drab little house staring at the pictures on the walls that the fleeing family had left behind Napoleon knew he was going to crawl out of his own skin. It was bad enough that most of the intel they collected lead to nothing more than average men selling silk stockings out of worn suitcases, but if the rest of their nights were as boring as their days he was sure he wouldn't make it.

Illya muttered something under his breath that Napoleon didn't quite catch, but it had all the cadence of 'idiot' so he ignored it. 

"Or when you were staring me when you thought I wasn't looking on the train ride here?"

The Red Peril whirls around, and from his position on the ground Napoleon idly wonders if his red face is from embarrassment or apoplectic anger. Or both. 

He doesn't have much time to wonder because Illya is across the room several long strides and all he can do is attempt to scramble up before the Russian's knee is in his gut and his hand is around his neck and squeezing like a vice. 

"You have been watching me?" Illya's voice is spitting mad and Napoleon doesn't let himself claw at his hand instinctually to see exactly how far he can push this. 

"It's kind of hard to miss the way you moon after me like a lovesick dog-"

It's all he can get out before the Red Peril (or is this Illya?) slams his head into the wooden floor. Ah yes, there's the grizzly.

"I do not moon. I am no dog. You are the animal Solo, if either of us is. You strut around like a cat in heat, bothering me with your constant yowling-"

It's Illya's turn to be cut off as Napoleon brings his knee up to his groin fast, using Illya's surprise and attempt to close his legs as a chance to shove the heel of his hand into Illya's nose. 

They trade blows for a while, rolling around on the floor more like common angry men than highly trained agents, and to Napoleon it feels more like foreplay than a fight. In a way, scrapping with Illya is better than sweet talk and gentle touching. It feels, at least, more authentic to the Red Peril's personality than some long attempt at seduction. 

When the dust settles, Illya is straddling his chest with his knees pressed into his biceps to pin him down and keep his arms still. Napoleon is aware he could arch his hips up and use his legs to break away but he doesn't. Illya's hand is fisted tightly in his hair and there's something about the way the Russian's face is contorted into something between anger and desire that keeps him still. They're both breathing hard and Napoleon is achingly aware that sometime during their fight he'd gotten hard, and at this angle it's obvious enough that Illya had too.

\--**--

"Maybe this will keep you quiet-" Illya's hand is on the button of his pants, and despite his rough tone and red face he pauses- waiting for Napoleon to break the pin, to tell him to fuck off, to do anything but stare at him with a grin like a spoiled child about to get what they had been asking for. Napoleon does none of these things, and so Illya unbuttons and unzips, pulling his cock out as he tips forward enough to allow his knees to slide off Napoleon's biceps and onto the floor. He keeps his shins on top of Solo's arms however, keeping him pinned but no longer crushing and bruising. 

Napoleon is leaning forwards to swallow him before he can even press the head to his lips, and Illya watches him half amused and half fascinated as Napoleon struggles to move his arms enough to grasp at his thighs. This most certainly was not how they did things in the KGB, or to the best of his knowledge in the CIA, and even as Napoleon hollows his cheeks and sucks Illya wonders where his partner had picked up this particular skillset. 

He uses his hand in Napoleon's hair to keep him still while he fucks his mouth with short, perfunctory thrusts of his hips, but he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, the way that Solo is squirming under him seems to indicate there is something about the situation hat he prefers. 

It takes both forever and no time at all until he's finished, and Illya forces his hips forward with a rough grunt as he spills down Napoleon's throat. He allows him a few moments more of sucking at his cock obscenely before he pulls away, using his own hand to gather the rest of the mess off himself and spilling it onto the floor with a sharp flick of his wrist.

Napoleon is looking at him expectantly as he tucks himself away, straightening his back and forcing his breathing to steady before he stands. He knows what Napoleon wants, what he's expecting, but Illya has no intention of rewarding his partner's bad behaviour more than he already has. 

Instead he makes his way back over to the window, taking up watch once more.


	2. If I look hard enough into the setting sun, my love will laugh with me before the morning comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was he finally admitting that Illya was the more superior agent? Or was he just out of control? Or was it the situation itself that had gone FUBAR? The Russian's thoughts turned to the way his own cock was pushing desperately at the front of his pants. Perhaps they both were out of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pure smut for minghi  
> Tw for rough/careless sex, bdsm, and sort-of incest play (name calling? What do I call this idk I'm sorry)

The abandoned home had been compromised a week ago, and the move to the small hotel had been necessary. The owner was too happy for their business to ask where they'd gotten the money, or to say anything when they requested he write no names in his ledger. It was clear that as long as they kept the west-German marks flowing, he'd pretend they weren't there at all and they'd do the same. Illya didn't care; it seemed wasteful to him as he could have had the entire hotel signed over to the organization if they'd let him do it his way, but it seemed like U.N.C.L.E. wanted to avoid some of the messier aspects of espionage. Whatever, if U.N.C.L.E. wanted to bleed money like a stuck pig that wasn't his concern. Not on this mission anyway. However he felt about the place they'd ended up in, the events that lead them there were clear and orderly in his mind. 

How he'd ended up with two fingers buried in his partner was much more messy. There had been drinking - a lot of drinking - and a chess game... 

He was focused on the aspect of it being a game. It seemed like a game; with his belt around his partner's neck and and the filth that was dribbling out of Solo's mouth in the form of words... They were certainly playing at something. 

Illya looped the belt around his hand for the second time, causing Solo's head to snap back as he emitted a whine that sound crushed by the leather around his throat. He forced his fingers further in st the same time, causing the man to begin to bend in two at the waist, causing the well defined muscles in his back to move in the most interesting way under his skin... Illya curled his fingers downwards and the effect was immediate. Solo's hips jerked obscenely, his back folding further, the fat in his ass jiggling as he strained against the belt. 

"Daddy, please-"

Solo's voice was rasping and desperate, and at first Illya didn't understand what he meant. Was he finally admitting that Illya was the more superior agent? Or was he just out of control? Or was it the situation itself that had gone FUBAR? The Russian's thoughts turned to the way his own cock was pushing desperately at the front of his pants. Perhaps they both were out of control. 

He moved his fingers again, keeping them buried deep when he spread the tips of them as far apart as he could inside Solo, watching the way the man did his best to buck and squirm at each new sensation. 

"Daddy, daddy that feels so good, deeper daddy? Make it hurt, I'll be so good-"

For a man that had never even referred to his own father in such an affectionate manner, the name sounded almost ridiculous on Napoleon's tongue. Well, if nothing else, it proved that the American was as childish as he'd suspected.

"Is that who I am, when I am inside of you like this?" Illya didn't bother to keep the amusement out of his voice. "If you call me this, you call me 'daddy'... This means you will start to behave?"

Solo's only response was a deep moan, and Illya withdrew his fingers with a sharp tug in return. He'd laid three smacks across Solo's backside before the agent could even begin to protest the removal of his fingers and Napoleon wailed over the sensation. 

"Ridiculous child, if I cried like that when I was punished I would have my ass beat black and blue." He struck Napoleon again, aiming to have his hand land between the American's cheeks so he could watch them move. "You cannot ask for so much and then whine when it comes to you." Illya spanked his partner almost with every word, too distracted by the way his ass jiggled and turned red under his hand to pay much attention to what he was saying. "This is what you asked for, what you were begging for when you climb in my lap, when you lick the chess pieces like deranged dog..."

Satisfied with the red tint to Solo's skin, and the way it seemed to radiate heat up into his hand, Illya would force his two fingers back inside the agent. He didn't want to know where Solo had found the lotion, nor did he have any desire to know how many had been in this position before him. He wouldn't be the first to conquer Napoleon Solo, but that wasn't his concern either. He only wanted to win this game, and all those that came after. 

He had loosened his grip on the belt considerably after the spanking was finished, and thus Napoleon was free to slide himself back on his fingers as forcefully as Illya was pushing them into him. Releasing the belt entirely, Illya would reach to grasp a handful of Solo's thick hair, yanking it back and up until the agent's shoulders rested against his chest. Napoleon was reaching for his own cock, and Illya would again pull his fingers out of the man roughly, this time so he could slap Solo's hands back down to his sides. 

"You do not touch yourself, cowboy. Only I can finish this for you. Is that want you want?"

"Jesus- yes daddy, daddy please-"

Solo's hands instead found their way back, grasping at his hips and then kneading at his still clothed ass as if that would hurry matters along. Illya paid him no mind, instead working his fingers back into his partner from their new position. The rougher he moved, the more Solo seemed to like it, and so he found himself pushing at the man's prostate relentlessly.

When Napoleon came it was with a broken sounding sob, and Illya would simply release him and let him fall forward on the now soiled bed in a heap before going to was his hands and take care of himself. Whatever the game had been, he was certain that being the last man standing was worth some points, at least.


End file.
